What's Underneath
by CreamoCrop
Summary: Molly is just glad that Sherlock sees through everything.


**A/N The cover image is a photomanip I created for this story.**

A Bottega Veneta silk dress snuggly wraps around her body, showing off the curves that were usually hidden by her lab coat. On her feet is a pair of Louboutins that effectively added four more inches of height, and on her face, is an hour of make-up work.

Her mom said she looked well put. Anita, her sister, said that she looked like she walked out of a photoshoot.

Everyone said she looked beautiful.

She thinks otherwise. How could she look beautiful when it is not even _her?_

Molly released a sigh as another wave of pain shot from her ankles. She got blisters in her feet, she could hardly breathe within the suffocating dress, and she can't even feel her face from the amount of foundation applied over it.

_Fake._

As she walked through the halls of St. Bart's, the stares of the people pricked her like needles. From the corner of her eyes, she saw Jake from radiology gawk while Houston from oncology whistled.

Really, she should be flattered with all the attention, especially since those are the guys that ordinarily never gave her a second glance.

But that's exactly the problem! They would never have given her a second glance, if it wasn't for this ensemble - an ensemble that's not _Molly._

Molly, who prefers keeping things more natural with only a thin layer of face powder.

Molly who likes loose jumpers and trousers because they allow her to move freely.

Molly who wears trainers and flats because they are more practical.

That's who she really is.

Not _this._

The only thing that's probably keeping her from floating out of this body, was the old pair of glasses sitting on top of her nose. She refused to wear contacts even when the stylist, her mother and her sister all tried to removed it.

She had already sacrificed too much just to look _good enough _to attend her sister's engagement dinner, that she had decided that wearing her old pair would be her way of revolting against them.

Thankfully she didn't have to suffer all throughout the event. In the middle of the 4th course, she got a call from St. Bart's.

With a practiced look of embarrassment and disappointment, she excused her self, saying that she really have to go.

She dashed away as if there's been murder.

The sad part of the story however, was that there _really_ was a murder case which means, Lestrade needs the results immediately. Therefore, she couldn't waste anytime to go home and change. The good part, was that she keeps a change of clothes in the lowest drawer of her office table.

The moment she entered the cold morgue, Molly immediately felt lighter. Even as she wobbled with pain, she felt calmer and more in control. Yes, hers is not the most glamorous job in the world nor is it the best paid, but being a pathologist, working with dead people and solving little mysteries of Death, is a vital part of her.

As she looked at the black body bag waiting for her, she felt at peace.

Strangely though, that peace is partly due to the absence of a detective inspector, an ex-army doctor and a consulting detective.

She knows that the body waiting for her is the most recent victim of a serial killer that the men are trying to track. She expected that they'd be there to observe the autopsy.

Slowly and painfully, she hobbled her way to her office. When she had finally reached her door, she twisted the doorknob with the assuring thought that she's only a few minutes away from comfort.

To her surprise, it wasn't her office that she walked into.

At least it's not how she last remembered it.

The room is littered with newspapers. From her desk, to the top of the cabinets and down at the floor, stacks of newspapers occupied every available space.

In the middle of the mess, is Sherlock Holmes.

"Sherlock, what's all of this?"

By "all", she means the newspapers, his presence in her _locked _office, and the tie hanging from his neck.

It's the first time she saw him wear a necktie.

Sherlock however, remained unresponsive. He merely stared at her with a blank look on his face.

Molly immediately began to review what she said. Was her grammar wrong? Was the question too obvious that she shouldn't have asked? Did she do something wrong

"You're late."

Or that.

She blanched at the coldness in his voice. Even if they had gotten closer after _previous events, _she still can't follow the workings of his brain.

She knows she'll never be able to, but half the time, she wishes she could get a clue.

"Well, I was in the middle of a party." Sherlock's stare is unnerving her so she started moving towards her table in order to put more distance in between them. Unfortunately, a thoughtless step brought her shoes to rub deeper into her blisters and the pain made her stumble over her table.

Which in turn knocked off a stack of newspapers.

Mortified with her clumsiness and fearing Sherlock's reaction, she immediately went to her knees and began picking up the papers.

"I am so sorry Sherlock." She continued to pick up the papers. "But I don't know why these papers are in my room."

Soon she is joined by the detective, who strangely remained quiet. "I don't even know why_ you_ are in my room." With her eyes entirely on the scattered mess, she wonders if the newspapers have anything to do with his current case.

"Are these papers connected to the serial killer?" She knows that she's rambling again, but Sherlock's silence is making her nervous. She kept her focus and her hands on straightening the jumbled browning papers. "Where is John by the way? And Lestrade? I thought you'd all be here for the auto-"

She immediately stopped short when a hand appeared right in front of her face. Before she could make any sense of the situation, her vision blurred and she felt the loss of the constant weight in the bridge of her nose.

Looking up, she realized that Sherlock took off her eyeglasses.

For a moment, all they did is stare at each other.

Molly is the first to snap out, when she remembered what her eyeglasses symbolize.

Is Sherlock like the rest of them? The weight on her shoulders came back.

"Sherlock, what are you doing?" she whispered.

Memories of a bygone Christmas flashed through her mind. He doesn't care for looks. _Right?_

Molly could have sworn that something happened with Sherlock's eyes, but in a flash, it was gone.

"This old pair is crooked, you'll have further correction problems if you continue wearing this." He said as he folded the glasses and placed it on top of her desk.

"Oh."

Sherlock then stood up and walked past her and to the door. "When you are done arranging the newspapers, come out immediately and begin the autopsy."

Molly sighed upon Sherlock's usual arrogance.

"Oh, and you might want to change to your strawberry-infested cardigan. You wouldn't want blood in the only expensive dress of yours, would you?." He said before fully exiting the room.

Molly frowned at the retreating figure, but as she continued to tuck newspapers in her arms, a small smile graced her lips.

Sherlock _always_ looks beyond the surface. That's why he's a great detective and a good man.

….

….

….

_'Besides, you look beautiful in it.'_


End file.
